The phone rang in Gergiev’s office. He picked it up, and on the other end was one of the three politicos from the Saint Petersburg Ministry of Cultural Affairs that had been in the meeting along with the three lawyers. It was the guy who had picked up one of the cashier’s checks for a million dollars, made out to cash. Gergiev had hoped he never would see or hear from any of those six again.
“We’ve had an interesting phone call at the Ministry this morning,” the voice said. “It was from someone you know. Someone you knew in the past. Twenty years ago.” Gergiev waited to hear if this was good news or bad news. “The call was from Mikhail. Mikhail B.”
Ah shit! Baryshnikov, that little defecting fuck. He had been allowed back into Russia once or twice since defecting in 1974, the last time in the early 90s. Gergiev had seen him then, and had run into him one or two other times when the Mariinsky was on tour out of the country. Other than that, Baryshnikov had gone about his traitorous businesses in New York and around the world: the White Oak joke, the other acting crap, the modern dance bullshit. And now, he was calling home.
“What’s the little shit want?”
The politico thought he would have some fun with Gergiev, and said, “Well, actually, he wants your job. Wants to come home and manage the Mariinsky. Says he’s homesick and wants to make amends for going away so long ago.” He waited for Gergiev say something intelligible, but all he heard was a gurgling noise. “We’ve been talking it over here at the office and, quite frankly, there’s some support for it. Getting him back in the fold would do a few people around here some good.” More gurgling. Not wanting to be responsible for Gergiev jumping out a window and landing in the middle of Theater Square, he said, “Listen, are you there? Bit of a joke, that last part. Easy does it. But he did call, and he does want to come back to work. Says he knows of the American Stravinsky production, and knows about our production. Says the discovery of the ballet score is incredible, and thinks the production should be here, not there. He’s offered to do the choreography. For you. Working for you. You’d still be the boss.”
Gergiev managed to grunt on his way back to being able to converse normally again. “What did he say?”
“Just that. Truthfully, just wants to offer his services as choreographer. And, joking aside, there is a lot of support here at the Ministry for that. I’ve been instructed, from the top, to ask you to give the proposition your most serious consideration. Understand?”
Gergiev understood. “Where is the little fuck, and when’s he coming?”
“He’s in Paris. Arriving here tonight about 10pm.”
“Tonight? And what if I refuse his proposition?”
“My friend, for every plane that flies into Saint Petersburg, there is one that flies out. The Aeroflot plane that’s bringing him from Paris continues on from here to Vladivostok. If you refuse the proposition, you will be on it. Baggage class.”